


Motorcycle Serenades

by skarlatha



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Biker!Daryl, Dudes Who Should Not Be Singing, First Kiss, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarlatha/pseuds/skarlatha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Valentine's Day, and the King County Sheriff's Department is partnering with the King County Biker's Association to deliver Singing Valentines for charity. Rick Grimes gets partnered up with Daryl Dixon to deliver roses to the community, which goes about as well as you'd expect. This fic includes motorcycle riding, wildly inappropriate song choices, and Daryl being sassy while Rick starts to get a little handsy. </p><p>Happy Valentine's Day, y'all. <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Motorcycle Serenades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michelle_A_Emerlind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle_A_Emerlind/gifts).



> Thank you to Michelle, who let me borrow her OC Roger Hendrickson for a brief cameo :) Michelle, you rock my socks.

As the bikers approached, all dressed in varying percentages of black leather and faded denim, dragging an almost visible cloud of cigarette smoke mixed with cheap musk cologne behind them, Rick glanced to his left at the line of terrified-looking deputies and recruits, then to his right at the rest of the police force. His fingers twitched, trying to make a break for the Python in his holster, but he held still. Shane was at his side, and he exchanged a brief steadying look with the other officer. “Hold the line,” Rick murmured to the greenie on his other side, and the kid nodded and stood up straighter, his badge glinting in the cold afternoon sunshine. 

The bikers stopped their motorcycles in the parking lot, revving their bikes just to be more intimidating, and then all killed their engines in almost perfect unison. They climbed off their bikes and spread out into a line in front of them, staring the police officers down with narrowed eyes filled with steel and suspicion. 

Rick swallowed hard, his only outward sign that the tense situation was getting to him. Shane murmured _we’ll get through this_ and Rick nodded almost imperceptibly. 

One of the bikers stepped forward, and Rick saw the sheriff move forward from the police line. The biker’s face spread into a wide, unsettling grin, and then he thrust his hand forward toward the sheriff. “Hey there,” the man said. “Roger Hendrickson.”

“Mr. Hendrickson,” the sheriff said, shaking the biker’s hand. “Thank you for helping us out with our Boys and Girls Club fundraiser.”

“No problem, no problem,” Roger said, still shaking the Sheriff’s hand and looking like he had no intention of stopping any time soon. “Thank _you_ for giving us the permit for the bike rally this summer.”

The sheriff nodded and pulled his hand away from Roger with some difficulty. Then he pulled a notepad out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” he called out. “You’ll all be paired up and then you’ll get the bucket of roses assigned to you. The officers should all have your lists of delivery addresses. Just a reminder that even though you will have an officer with you, the rules of the road still apply. No speeding, no running red lights, no taking shortcuts through yards. When you’re done with your deliveries, we will meet back here for a spaghetti dinner provided by the ladies of the First Baptist Church as thanks for your service today.” He started reading off pairs of names, and Rick shifted nervously until he heard his own name called. 

“Rick Grimes, with Daryl Dixon,” the sheriff said, and Rick looked up to see a man with shaggy hair give him a half-hearted sarcastic wave from the rapidly dissipating biker line. He trudged over and stuck out his hand for a handshake.

Daryl eyed him and then gingerly shook his hand. “‘s go,” he said, and he turned around to walk back to his bike. Rick frowned, then jogged over to get their bucket of roses and waited while Daryl wordlessly strapped them to his bike. Then the biker slung his leg over the bike and started the engine, leaving Rick to clamber onto the seat on the back of the motorcycle and shift around until he got into a comfortable position. 

Daryl turned his head slightly, not enough to actually look back at Rick but enough that he could hear him, and called, “First house?”

Rick looked at his list and then tucked it into the breastpocket of his uniform. “Mrs. Andrews, 658 North Primrose,” he said, and Daryl nodded and clamped his hand down on the accelerator and then they were flying out of the parking lot and Rick lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the biker’s waist. Daryl grunted, which Rick _felt_ more than he could hear over the loud engine, and Rick looked wildly around and saw another motorcycle pulling out of the parking lot near them, Shane perched on the back and not touching his biker at all, looking perfectly balanced and safe. Shane raised an eyebrow at him before his biker jerked the bike to the side and off down a street in the opposite direction, and Rick turned bright red and released Daryl’s waist awkwardly. 

Primrose Street was about five blocks from the station. Rick stared at the fringe of hair on the back of Daryl’s neck as it whipped in the breeze, and he could have sworn that it took them at least six years to make the trip as his cheeks burned like coals in a bonfire and his hands tingled with how it had felt to have them against Daryl’s stomach. 

**658 Primrose Road, 4:38 p.m.**

Rick climbed off the bike, stumbling a little, and Daryl slid down out of his seat like he’d been doing it his whole life. Rick wondered how true that actually was, looking down to see if Daryl had cowboy-style bowlegs from straddling the bike for years. He didn’t. And when Rick looked up at Daryl’s face, it was pretty obvious that the man had seen Rick studying his legs.

“Ain’t singin’,” Daryl said, pulling one of the roses out of the bucket. 

Rick frowned at him. “It’s a _Singing Valentine_ ,” he protested. “That’s the point.”

“You sing, then,” Daryl said. He reached up and pushed his hand through his windblown shaggy hair. “I’ll do flower duty.”

Rick sighed heavily and trudged up to the door, pasting a bright smile on his face. Mrs. Andrews answered, and Rick immediately launched into “I Will Always Love You” before he could talk himself out of it, and Daryl snickered from beside and slightly behind him and Rick wanted to punch him. But Mrs. Andrews’s eyes welled up with tears when Rick finished the chorus and told her that the flower was from her husband, and he had to elbow Daryl to make the man hand over the rose. 

They trudged back to the bike and Daryl climbed back on. Rick sighed and climbed up behind him. “You’re singing at the next one.”

“Make me, Officer Friendly,” Daryl said, and then the bike was revving and Rick _almost_ lunged forward and grabbed him again before he remembered that he didn’t have to.

**712 Sunrise Circle, 4:52 p.m.**

Rick finished the chorus of “I Will Always Love You” and told sweet old Mrs. Barrow that her son had sent her the rose, and he didn’t have a very good answer when she asked why they’d chosen _that_ song since her son ought to have picked a less… romantic one. Rick blushed and hemmed and hawed and Daryl rolled his eyes and said, “‘s the only song Grimes here knows, ma’am,” and Rick hit him. Not hard, but it made him feel a little better when Daryl let out a surprised little _oomph_. 

**1023 Great Oaks Lane, 5:14 p.m.**

This time Rick launched into “Sugar, Sugar” instead of “I Will Always Love You” and when he got to the _you are my candy girl_ line he heard a snort from behind him followed by really obnoxious snickering, and he aimed an elbow behind himself that caught Daryl in his surprisingly hard abs. “Thank you for supporting the King County Boys and Girls Club,” he told Ms. Perkins, and he was back on the bike before Daryl was, scowling down at the concrete of the driveway and trying not to think about how his elbow still sort of tingled from the contact.

**187 Valley Street, 5:32 p.m.**

Daryl’s hair was a mess and Rick wanted to fix it. He reached up at least three times on the drive to the next house to untangle the strands that were so close to his face and every time he put his hand back down before he could sink it into Daryl’s hair. When they finally parked in Mr. Taylor’s driveway and got off the bike, Rick slipped a comb out of his pocket and offered it to Daryl. Daryl gave a pointed look at Rick’s own wild curls and turned away without taking the comb. 

“Mr. Taylor’s gay, right?” Daryl asked, and Rick looked at the list where it said _from his long-term partner Hank_ and nodded. Daryl smirked. “Dare ya to sing ‘It’s Raining Men,’” he said, drawling out the words in a way that made Rick’s skin tingle. “Fuckin’ dare ya.” 

Rick gave him what he hoped was a stern look and shook his head, then determinedly pushed his way through what turned out to be a really awful rendition of “The Power of Love” while Mr. Taylor beamed happily at them. 

“Pussy,” Daryl muttered at Rick as they walked back to the bike, and Rick slugged him in the shoulder. 

**4012 Central Street, 5:46 p.m.**

“It has to be a _love song_ ,” Rick hissed at Daryl as they waited on Mrs. Isaacs to answer her door. “I am not singing ‘ _Walk Like a Fucking Egyptian_ ’ at a 70-year-old Sunday School teacher.”

“Too bad,” Daryl said, and when Mrs. Isaacs opened the door, Daryl immediately started belting out the Bangles like he didn’t give the slightest fuck what anybody thought about it. His voice was low and rough, like the crunch of gravel under his bike tires, and he didn’t have very good rhythm, but he made up for technical expertise in sheer _commitment_ to the stupid song. And in the layer of _sex_ that Rick thought he heard under the deep country baritone, but maybe that was just Rick’s imagination. After all, Daryl was singing to an AARP member and the only other person who could hear him was Rick, so the heat in the tone couldn’t possibly be intentional. 

Rick slapped his hand up over his own eyes and groaned when Daryl gave a little sarcastic Egyptian-dancing-flourish at the end, but Mrs. Isaacs thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard and she ended up giving Daryl a big hug that made Rick suddenly insanely jealous of the elderly woman. 

**391 S. Poplar Ave., 6:11 p.m.**

“Swear to God,” Daryl promised, and Rick scowled at him. 

“If I do this and you don’t back me up, I will have you arrested for possession with intent,” Rick grumbled. 

“Ain’t got nothin’ on me,” Daryl said, grinning wickedly. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll tell ‘em you’re a mule and you’ll still have to go through a cavity search before they’ll let you off,” Rick said, snatching a rose out of the bucket. 

Daryl tilted his head and gave Rick what Rick would have thought were bedroom eyes coming from a woman and not from a rugged-edged biker. “Sounds like a romantic evenin’ if you’re the one doin’ the search, Friendly,” he muttered, and Rick blinked at his back as Daryl walked quickly up to the door and knocked. 

They exchanged a glance when they heard the lock opening, and Daryl gave Rick a challenging eyebrow raise, and then Mrs. Bremer opened the door and Rick fell to one knee and launched into “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” and to his astonishment, Daryl joined in at the appropriate wingman time, and by the time they got back on the bike they were laughing their heads off and Mrs. Bremer was shaking her head at them from her porch. 

**2910 Kensington Lane, 6:23 p.m.**

The trouble was that Daryl’s cologne was just completely and utterly maddening and sitting so close behind him, Rick couldn’t get away from it, couldn’t even distract himself because the only available distraction was Daryl’s stupid shaggy messed-up hair brushing against the soft tanned skin on the back of his neck, and Rick wouldn’t be thinking about it at all but Daryl had said something about a _romantic evening_ and now Rick just wanted to put his hands all over the man and make him shiver like the freckle on the curve of Daryl’s neck was making _Rick_ shiver.

And then they were in front of Mrs. Davidson and Rick was absolutely, 100% sure that “Genie in a Bottle” was not the retired librarian’s first choice of love song, but the way Daryl made fucking _eye contact_ with Rick during the _gotta rub me the right way_ part made Rick’s brain stop giving much of a crap about anything other than being back on the bike with his crotch pressed up against Daryl’s hips again. 

And this time he looped his arms around Daryl’s waist on purpose, and Daryl leaned back into him, and Rick moaned and reached up to run his fingers through Daryl’s tangled hair. 

**The Middle of Nowhere, Somewhere Between the Greene Farm and the City Limits, 7:38 p.m.**

Daryl stopped the bike on the side of the road. They’d delivered their last rose, to the romantic sounds of “Wild Thing,” to a very confused aging veterinarian and they were supposed to be on their way back to the station for their celebratory spaghetti dinner. Rick wrinkled his brow in confusion as Daryl slid off the bike and motioned for him to do the same.

“Alright,” Daryl practically growled, taking a step toward Rick, “you’ve had that thing pressed against my ass for an hour and a half and so if you don’t want me to kiss the fuck out of you right here, better tell me now.”

Rick looked at Daryl, looked at his sexy eyes and the way his tongue snaked out over his lips while he waited for his answer, and let out a tiny whimper. 

“‘S what I thought,” Daryl said, and he took another step forward and fisted his hand in Rick’s uniform shirt, yanking him the rest of the way over, and then they were kissing, and it skipped right over chaste and exploratory and went straight to open-mouthed and dirty, with Rick’s hands in Daryl’s hair and Daryl’s hands shoving down into Rick’s back pockets, and it was almost ten minutes later when they broke apart, gasping and panting and as hard as fucking bricks, and Daryl nipped at Rick’s jaw and murmured, “How much you care about the spaghetti dinner, Grimes?” and Rick answered, “Not one fucking bit” and then they were back on the bike, Daryl swatting at Rick and yelling at him to control himself so that Daryl could get them to a proper bed before they had a wreck. 

All in all, Rick couldn’t remember a Valentine’s Day he’d ever enjoyed as much as this one, and he told Daryl so later, speaking the words into Daryl’s sweat-slick skin while the biker laughed and started singing “Pour Some Sugar On Me” and Rick, delighted for the suggestion, did.


End file.
